


Baristas Know Best

by searchingforlight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boyfriends, Coffee Shops, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Fluff, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Relationship(s), Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 22:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14247489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingforlight/pseuds/searchingforlight
Summary: Sherlock's attempt at getting coffee one morning leads to a myriad of feelings he has towards his one and only blogger, John Watson. Bits of fluff, silly names on coffee cups, unexpected touches, kissing, and two very happy Baker Street Boys.





	Baristas Know Best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elldotsee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/gifts), [Thornypeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornypeach/gifts).



> Major kudos to my lovelies elldotsee and Thornypeach for helping me coax my one in the morning muse out to write this fun OS.

_ Buzz _

The vibration coming from my pocket could only be a message from John at this hour. I was hoping he’d still be sleeping after solving our latest, and most exhausting, case. ‘ _ He doesn’t need to know where I am right now _ ,’ I think. I pull the collar of my coat tighter against my face, preventing the misty brisk London air from chilling my naturally cool body. My pace quickens as more people leave their homes at this ungodly hour of the morning. Many of their destinations similar to mine. Some may head up the street, others may take the train, but all aiming to get their fix. I need to beat the rush if I want to be back before John wakes up, or better yet, before Mrs. Hudson ruins my plans for this morning. 

I reach my target after one last crossing of the street, barely missing the front end of a cabbie, who presumably is finishing his late evening shift due to his lazy and impaired driving.  _ Finally _ . I exhale a breath I was not aware I was holding. As I open the door, I’m overcome by a wafting of smells.  _ Coffee.  _ The best fix for such mere simpletons as they refuse to push the limits of their minds beyond the effects of the minimal amounts of caffeine embedded in the sugar-laden cups of ground coffee beans. I’d much rather have a seven percent solution, but as I promised John, I won’t be getting that sense of euphoria this morning. Apparently coffee is the more sensible choice. 

Even though it’s well before normal business hours, there is a small line I must wait in. I go over John’s order in my mind once more: a tall, dark as his soul, - which I don’t quite understand given that the idea of a soul be given such human characteristics as we don’t have souls - splash of milk, no sugar. John is always adamant about no sugar since our case in Baskerville. How was I supposed to know the man balk at the idea of sugar in his coffee? ‘ _ Oh wait, _ ’ I chuckle. ‘I _ did know, however it was for the greater good of our case _ .  _ Even Mycroft won’t accept drinks from me to this day. Pity. I have grown some since we were children. _ ’ 

I get to the front of the line, aware that one of the baristas behind the counter is trying to catch my eye. She seems overly perky for this time of the morning. Young, it seems, maybe in her mid twenties. Freckles splashed on her face. A small tan line peeking out from her collarbone. Vacation. South of France. Not a true blonde, but what people do for fashion these days is none of my concern.

“I would like …” I start to give my order when the perky barista hands me two coffees with a smile.

“Hello, Sherlock! Nice to see you this morning. Where’s John? He’s normally the one to pick up your coffee.”

“Excuse me, but how did you know my name? I’ve only been in here once before, as I recall. I don’t regular these types of establishments if I don’t have to.” I stand there partially perplexed by the situation. I just wanted to be in and out without a fuss and with minimal contact with anyone.

“Not everyone in London wears a long coat and a rather dashing blue scarf in September. Plus, John has a habit of talking about you when he stays in for his coffee. We catch up occasionally.” She smiles, and starts to head back to her spot behind the bar.

“Wait. Don’t I need to pay? I know that coffee from this establishment isn’t free - but it should be concerning the lack of quality we get in each cup.” That last bit I mutter under my breath.  The blonde barista chuckles to herself, a small rustling of her shoulders catching my eye. 

I don’t understand what’s so funny about my asking to pay this coffee establishment for what they call coffee instead of walking away. Contrary to John’s belief - and those other people we spend time with I flippantly remember - I do know how social customs work. I just rather not have to deal with them. 

Pulling my attention back, the girl behind the counter moves towards me with a freshly punched card. “John mentioned that you might come in for coffee sometime. I had him fill out a few punch cards in order to accumulate a few free drinks on the off chance you stopped in by yourself. He seemed pretty adamant that you were to not pay for any of the coffees you need to grab. Been filling these out for the past few months now.” She hands me the card with a note saying ‘ _ You have six free coffees left, John. _ ’ “Oh by the way, give John my love will you? Have a wonderful day, Sherlock Holmes.” With that, and a flick of her hand, she motions for the next customer.

Clearly I’ve overstayed my welcome, as I hear grumbles from the line behind me. I silently back away from the crowd as it inches its way closer to the front of the line, encroaching my space. Too much human contact for one morning.  _ ‘Give John my love?’ Who is this woman giving John her love? No I won’t have it.’  _ I must ask John more about this barista and why she thinks she I’m going to express such a casual phrase of endearment for her.

The commute back seems to pass quicker than I anticipate as I methodically open the front door to 221B and make my way up the stairs. I can hear the sound of dishes being washed in the kitchen in my flat. John must have made breakfast now that he’s up. Before I head into the flat, I check my phone for the unanswered text he sent me this morning. 

_ Thanks for picking up coffee this morning, Sherlock. I’ll have breakfast ready for you when you get back. - JW _

For as much as I know John Watson and the way his more than average mind works, it seems as if he knows more of my intricacies than I give him credit for. Smiling, I push the door open and make my presence known to John with a quick ‘Morning’ as I know the slightest surprise can set off a myriad of painful memories from John’s time spent in the war. 

“Morning, Sherlock. How did your errand go this morning?” John finished wiping hands and made his way towards me reaching out for me, I mean, his coffee. 

“Dreadful. The weather is suitable, but the people. Oh the people were dreadful, especially that perky barista behind the counter.” 

John begins to chuckle. The way his body vibrates lifts the small corner of my mouth into a pleasant half smile. Thankfully John is too engrossed in his coffee to notice. I dare not share those small moments with him as they leave me vulnerable and open to comments that I’m not quite sure I’m ready to hear from John’s soft lips. 

“That’s Bri for you. She’s used to the opening shift and all the buggers who show up grumpy and unpleasant. I think she subtly does it to annoy everyone.” John takes another sip of his coffee, letting the brew slowly warm him up. 

I notice he happens to be wearing one of his less than flattering jumpers this morning. I must remember to have Mrs. Hudson add a few extra pounds to the electricity to keep from John from wearing these insufferable sweaters. They hide the curvature of his body, and as much as I hate to admit it, he is quite a sight to see freshly awoken in the mornings. T-shirt clad chest, his slightly toned biceps pulling at the hem of his sleeves. I clear my throat bringing myself back from the the image of John standing in the kitchen in nothing but his tight white shirt and pyjama bottoms. 

“Her name tag said Brianna. Why must you call people by something other than their given name, John? It’s quite infantile, don’t you think? Anyway, she said to ‘give you her love.’ Whatever that means.” Crossing over the living room, I flop myself down in my chair with a little pout, hoping John notices the way I protrude my lip in an childlike manner. Petulant it might be, but I feel this irritating nag in my mind that no one is allowed to give John their love. 

“Oh Sherlock, jealous much? It’s nothing really. Bri is just a friend that I met a couple months ago when I helped patch up her friend to the clinic. You know, that place where I work at when I’m not skirting around the tail ends of you coat?” A reminiscent smile makes it way onto his face. “It’s strictly platonic. Apparently, I’m not her ‘cuppa tea.’ John takes another sip of his coffee, this time making a bit of an unpleasant face. His nose scrunches and lips pucker as if he's tasted something distasteful. "Also, I think you might have given me your coffee. I normally don’t take mine with an extra shot of espresso.”

I check the name on my cup of coffee - “Jawn”. I roll my eyes at the incredulous spelling of John’s name. Incredulous it is, for I prefer the given spelling of his name - John Hamish Watson. Simple. Uniformed. Not to be messed with. 

“I see she’s spelt my name J-A-W-N again. That girl. I’ll have to mention to her not to do that if you happen to pick up coffee again.” He rotated the coffee cup around, peering at the side where a name should be written. “I wonder how she decided to spell Sherlock. I’m guessing she might have gone with ‘Cherylock’ again -” 

I glance over at John from a top the newspaper I had begun to read in order to keep myself from drifting off into thoughts of John being domestic, noting a blush creeping its way up his neck and into his cheeks. It’s normal for John to have a slight pink tinge in his cheeks most day, I note, but this? This is far too deep of rouge overpowering his face. “Is something the matter, John?” I fold the newspaper in half, giving him all of my attention. 

John’s hands begin to sweat as he wipes them on his trousers, and gives me a shaky laugh. “Oh, nothing. You know what? I think I’m going to keep your cup today. That extra espresso might do me some good. Plus, we happen to take our coffee the same way. No big deal. If I need to, I can always pick us up another cup on our way to Bart’s this afternoon if you’re in need of a pick me up.” With that, John briskly walked, more like half ran, into the kitchen. “Just grabbing our breakfast. It’s probably cold by now, but you’ll manage, right?” He calls to me taking more than just a brief second to compose himself. 

By the time he returns with our toast, the flush has left his cheeks, and his coffee has been poured into his favorite mug. ‘ _ Interesting,’ _ I muse wondering where he might have disposed of the coffee cup with my name on it.  It couldn’t have been too embarrassing for me not to have been shown. Nevertheless, I don’t go to find the cup, hoping to forget all about the trip to the coffee shop this morning and forcing me to interact with someone other than my blogger.

We make small talk and glance over the newspaper while eating our toast and preserves. I note that John has specifically put blackberry preserves on my toast while opting for a strawberry spread on his own breakfast. I store away this piece of information in my mind palace for later breakfasts that I might plan on making. John can’t only be the domestic one, now can he? As I go for the last bite of my toast, a small portion of preserves attaches to my finger. Unwilling to get up for a napkin, I pop my finger into my mouth, swirling my tongue around making sure that each morsel of blackberry is removed, and pull it away with a small  _ pop _ . 

John’s eyes are fixated on me. The blush from earlier returning in full force. He shifts in his chair, crossing his legs, and folding the newspaper on top of his lap. Clearing his throat, he notices me watching him, he begins turning a darker shade of pink. “You know,” he starts, “that’s uncharacteristic of you, Sherlock. Are you sure you don’t want to wash up from that sticky mess you’ve made?” 

“I’m not quite sure what you mean by that, John,” I chide back placing another finger in my mouth in defiance of his cheeky remark. Plus, I desire to observe his eyes darken while his jaw drops, watching me as I now know what sort of reaction I ebb from his sensuous nature. No one ever gives me enough credit when it comes to the natural state of man’s desires. Even though I do not embrace my own desires, I still feel a longing towards John.

I finish lazily cleaning my fingers off with my mouth and stand to return to the kitchen with my dirty plate. I take John’s from his lap, noting the slight jump of my touch on his knee. I smirk in response and playfully saunter away, hoping John is watching my hips move. I enjoy the moments I can rile him up with only a small out of character movement from my part. 

I place the dishes in the sink, remembering that John disposed of the coffee cup from earlier in the bin. I go to pick it up, knowing that I might be disgusted with the inept spelling of my name. A unfamiliar wave of uncertainty charges through my body. I rub my eyes, blinking them thoroughly, hoping that maybe my mind has yet to catch up with my surroundings. I am lacking my extra shot of espresso after all.

_ Jawn’s Boyfriend _

I bring myself back to the present, leaning my backside against the counter. Using my free hand to rub my temples, I rationalize a myriad of scenarios begin cycling through my mind. Why would this Brianna write such a thing on my cup?. “It must be an inside joke between the two of them,” I whisper to the emptiness of the kitchen, hoping that John cannot hear me. “But why joke about something like this? Are they taking a piss out of me? It doesn’t seem like John’s nature. Should I ask him about it, or leave it be?” Turning the cup over in my hands once more, I swallow my pride, which happens to be more difficult than I imagined - mustn't tell John about that.

When I walk back into the living room, cup in hand, I find John pacing, muttering a string of incoherent thoughts. I catch pieces of his thoughts before he notices me with the cup in my hand. 

“Before you start Sherlock, I have to tell you,” John shakily holds his hands out in defense. “I had no idea that Bri would write something like that on your cup. I mentioned that we were flatmates and occasionally I talked to her about you when I was having a rough go. It was never anything overly personal, I swear.” He clasps his hands and placed them down on his stomach, looking as if he might be sick at any moment. 

“John, it’s okay. She must be taking the piss out of me, or something.” I walk over, tenderly grabbing John’s arm and embrace him in a hug. My hand slips to the back of his neck, pulling gently at his untrimmed hairline. Closeness, that’s what keeps my blogger safe. Sensing his uncertainty, I pull him closer and harder to me, whispering in his ear, “I know you’d never try to make a fool of me, John Watson. You’re the most loyal and kind friend I have ever had the pleasure of spending my time with.” 

John relaxes at these words, putting his arms around my waist, and gently places his head against my chest with a sigh. “Thank you, Sherlock. I know it must pain you to hold me this way, but … thank you.” 

Against my better judgment, I press my cheek atop John’s head, feeling the softness of his hair on my face. “You know,” I begin to say, “you must say really kind things about me to this Brianna for her to insinuate that I’m your significant other. You know I don’t deserve your sentiments John.” He tilts his head to gaze into my eyes. 

“Yes you do, Sherlock. Boyfriend or not, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re incredibly brilliant, deducing the smallest of details, and while you’re a right prat, I don’t think the world could handle you any other way.” 

John’s hands begin to make their way up my chest, grazing my jawline, and landing softly on either side of my face. My heart begins to race, my thoughts go fuzzy, unwilling to step away from this intimate touch. I reciprocate this gentleness of his touch by angling my hips against his, snaking my fingers around the small of his back and clasping them together to prevent John from escaping. 

He continues to praise me with words I do not deserve and with emotions that John knows I cannot feel, but I allow them to wash over me, causing me to flush with pride. In this moment, with him - this beautiful man I’ve grown so fond on, I acknowledge the affection I have for the man I have firmly grasped in my arms. 

Unable to listen to his praises any longer, I release one of my hands from the small of his back and gingerly stroke the side of his face. The last thought to run through my mind is ‘ _ logic be damned,’ _ and with that, I lean in placing my timid lips upon John’s, silencing him. A soft moan begins to escape my throat. A part of me bursts to life, a softness - like flower when it blooms in the morning sun. 

The fervidity of our kiss deepens as John parts his lips, tongue asking permission to enter. His hands coil around locks of my hair, tugging gently as the heat between us rises. John calms his body, slowing his breath once I allow him entrance into my mouth. A flirtatious fight for dominance ensues as our tongues weave to and fro to the rhythm of our hearts. I allow John to lead for I want not, but to enjoy the way his body connects with mine. I want this desire of ours to swallow me whole, and never return me to my former state of being. To be completely John Watson’s for all of eternity - a time constraint I once did not fully partake in. 

As I slow my breathing, I part from John’s lips, unwillingly. The gleam in his eyes begging me to never let him go, battles with my cold heart fighting to unthaw the emotionless state that keeps me safe, and hardens other parts I knew that would beseech more from the man eliciting these desires in me.  _ No, not yet, _ I think,  _ this moment should not be stretched too far into a realm we are unsure we want to embark in.  _ Grasping his body and pushing his head on mine, I can’t help but chuckle. 

“Was it that bad?” John timidly asks, his body preparing for an onslaught of critiquing on my behalf. He starts to pull away to look at my face, trying decipher my thoughts. 

“No, John. That was everything I imagined it would be, and more.” Kissing his forehead, I make a mental note to put an end to some of my more berating behaviors when it comes to John. I do not deserve continuing showers of love he gives me, but I will never deny John and his needs. Anything to see this exact smile on face. “I was just thinking that maybe I should go get coffee for us more often, you know, as your boyfriend.” 

John playfully smacks my arm. “I think I’d like that very much, my boyfriend. I can’t be the only domestic one in our relationship, now can I?” 

Laughing, I kiss him once more. “No, you definitely cannot.” 


End file.
